Pirint
by Iwilo
Summary: "Trazee! Fy trazee en peelinso lonlees! ..."


"Trazee! Fy trazee en peelinso lonlees! Fy trazee! Trazee hen peelinso poooops!"

Fyve stumbled along the rocky coastline between Ratchet and the Southfury River. His shadow was near-invisible in the dim light. Were one to inquire of him his destination, he would likely sniff, scan the shore with a broad and wavering sweep of the tusks and announce that he was headed for Fuck It. "Fuqqet."

Pale sand and the occasional cutting shell (footfuqqs) gave way to a good forty yards of gray boulders; smooth and dark where the ocean had buffed it to a shine, the stone grudgingly revealing marbled swirls to the hidden places where crabs scuttled when the tide was low, where little fish darted about in a perpetual frenzy when the tide was at its apex.

Each of the massive stones jealously hid their sparkle-dust whorls beneath a bloodthirsty and shark's-tooth white ring of innocent looking barnacles. The boulders' crowns were craggy, uneven and pitted; textured for traction and adept at capturing dried seaweed on the wind. Some of them were dotted white with gull shit. Others had grabbed tiny, empty spiral snail shells from the previous high tide, which now nestled comfortably in little craters to obliviously wait for the tide or not wait for the tide.

A piece of driftwood rocked in the low-tide shallows in a pocket made by the boulders. The clunk, clunk, bap, clunk of dead wood against stone echoed throughout the hollow spaces like a strange instrument. "Fydooo yanummy aslon asyawannit! Enden sahmtimes… HUK! Ya neebeefer semeny goooo…"

"Woooreee! Why canna lemmyseff woreeed? Wunnrim whadafuckdid Fy DoooOOoooOoo? Tray…" A dead monarch butterfly, lovely and tragic with tattered golden wings and broken antennae, blew across the sand and settled between two thick, blue toes. Fyve stopped, legs apart for balance and looked down at the insect on his foot. "… hnh." The breeze picked up where it had left off and carried the spent butterfly away to join its stolen wing dust in the dry reeds.

Fyve continued to stare at the place where the butterfly had been. He sniffed. His head weaved from side to side. An indigo dreadlock tumbled over his shoulder, pulling two of its comrades in tow. One of his suspenders, which had been twisted, flipped over with an audible pop. The troll continued to blink at the sand in front of his feet while his arms hung at his sides.

In his left hand, he held a large spiral shell that ended in two points. It was an intact whelk. It was very intact. The dying, amorphous creature was still squirming feebly behind the half-empty flask of whiskey that had been jammed into the opening of its home. It went against the whelk's programmed instincts to become a "flassholder". His right hand clutched a dead jellyfish. The jellyfish was neither intact nor squirming.

A low rumble began deep in Fyve's chest, welling up and growing in strength. He thrust his monstrous tusks at the sky and his jaw dropped, "Grrrrrryyyyyaaah jess toogooferbee troot! Canntaymy eye unnubyoo! Ya belike nebberfertouch! Iwanna hollumanub! Allonglass dunbin arribe Fy cou tanked bobbin namide…"

He lowered his tusks as he continued to howl and bellow, swaying and staggering along the coast to Fuck It at an easy pace. He paused at the boulders, briefly; thick, protruding and hairless brow furrowing and rising in one smooth motion as clouded vision took in the forty yard deep and ten yard wide obstruction. To the … tusk-hand side, there was sand. To the front part, there was big rock. To the no-tusk-hand side, there was ocean. This left two options. He could go swim, or…

The road to Fuck It was… "Fuqqet," Fyve shrugged, as he placed his Flask Holder on the rough top of the nearest boulder. He slapped his open hand on the stone to pull his self up and remembered his Booger Of Lights. "Hnh." He dropped the abused jellyfish on the sand and gave it an experimental poke with his toe. It no longer glowed green when it was poked. As he had suspected, the battery had run out. "Alrigh bye."

The button on the cuff of his checkered grey shirt caught on the edge of the rock as he hauled himself over the edge. "Oop, Fy cou fickit." And he did fix it. Humming quietly, Fyve proceeded to bite off the second button on his cuff before biting off the two on the other sleeve. Something seemed wrong. "Fy canna remembecau Fy drun," he told Flask-Holder whelp, as he lifted it close and let his voice echo back at him around the partially crushed flask. The dying pink lump of bruised flesh within the shell pulsed weakly in response to the vibration and then relaxed indefinitely.

Fyve lowered the whelk to the boulder and sniffed, cleared his throat, "Oh… I knowit." He yanked the bottom of his shirt out of his pants and began at the bottom, ripping out the buttons. When he had finished, he spread the front of the shirt like wings, leaving his suspenders to hold the halves apart. Picking up his shell and his song, the troll dragged himself to his feet and began the vaguely important task of crossing the rock-fuck to where-the-hell.

"Nennytie Fy tryfer tell'n… Nenn- _HUK! _–nnytienoonime ahnone… unkh." The troll's shadow cavorted and wavered; split and reformed as it lengthened in the sunrise. The strangely jagged and constantly changing outline, which only vaguely resembled a troll for brief moments, darkened at the center and glowed in shades of red and gold at its edges.

The sun continued to rise, revealing the faded, bloody footprints that marked the passage of the singing and growling troll who rose and fell and stumbled carelessly over and between jagged rocks. "…belonfer anigh we belonfer anodder! Me belonfer asounfer a worr be falldown anodder! Nunnebber we anider endrapes annerser fer bedder we along alongalongalo- HUK! … toooogedder!"

Gulls were keening and squabbling in the distance when Fyve dropped from the last boulder to the wet sand beyond. His heavy foot buried itself up to the ankle and he leaned forward, pushing off from the other foot. "Stupid!" he yelled as he dislodged the trapped foot and was flung forward, arms out to the side before his tusks plowed straight down into the sand. Oh. "Nh." Dropping the deceased and forgotten whelk, Fyve planted his hands on the ground and shoved as hard as his whiskey-floppy muscles would allow. He looked around for a moment, blinked. He hadn't really expected to get his tusks out of the wet sand on the first try.

Rising to his feet unsteadily, he reached up and slapped the sand from his mouth, crossed his eyes as he slid his hands down his tusks.

As he uncrossed his eyes, his blurred gaze happened on something further up the beach. The troll sniffed, cleared his throat and nodded. His right foot clipped the abandoned flask-violated whelk as he staggered past it, eyes fixed on the unidentified new goal framed between his massive tusks. The road to Fuck It had many twists.

The goblin lay on his belly, legs straight, bare feet facing out in either direction. A long barrel pistol lay next to his outstretched hand. An empty tin bucket rolled and bobbed in the shallows, taken by an errant breeze, no doubt. His eyes were closed, mouth hanging open as his head lolled heavily against the sand. Secured to his belt were a coiled yellow rope and a switchblade knife. He'd been wearing his brown back pack on only one shoulder and it now rested on the sand, the strap loose around his left elbow. A stick; long, damp and sandy; poked the goblin above the right eye, pressing an indent into his temple before slowly lifting away. The goblin did not stir.

Waves broke into quiet, fast sheets that spread and receded, the sand bubbling and hissing in their wake. Tiny plovers, squat with toothpick legs, rushed out to pick at the hissing sand. Dozens of sets of tiny eyes blinked as the ocean turned, paused, and slid forth to chase the skittish birds back the way they'd come. The sheet retreated with another hiss, the plovers turned as one, and the dance continued.

Fyve sniffed, recapped his flask and shoved it into his back pocket. He blinked, squeezing his eyes very tightly shut and then opening them as wide as he could. He sniffed again as he forced his eyes to focus on the goblin before him. The goblin wore black rubber boots and dark brown pants that were tucked into the boots. He had a sleeveless shirt with yellow stains under the arms. He smelled bad. Lifting the stick again, Fyve reached out with one long arm and poked the goblin below the eye. The stick was skinny and clumsy in his drunken grip. It caught on the skin below the goblin's eye and pulled the lid open briefly, revealing an eye that was only white before dragging down the dusty green cheek in a jerky zigzag.

"Dead," Fyve announced to the dead goblin. He looked around and tossed the stick. "Alrigh… Wha ya gah?" Yanking at his drawn-apart shirt curtains, Fyve moved closer to the dead goblin and settled onto the sand so they could watch the sun finish rising. Well, he could watch the sunrise and be temporarily rewarded a darker blue stripe down the middle of his chest. The goblin was facing his leg but the goblin wasn't watching anything.

"Ya smell lie ya binnere lonner den yalooked," Fyve sniffed and rubbed his right eye with the back of a knuckle as he stared at the water. "Em toodrunfer cared. Buh ya stin bad." The goblin didn't answer. The water exploded not far from the unlikely pair, hundreds of silvery-white minnow bursting into the air as one; vanishing only to reappear further from shore. Or perhaps it was a different school of minnow.

A line of three pelicans skated over the water, dove and lifted the hinged tops of their beaks.

Fyve sniffed as he rolled the stinky goblin over, humming a tune under his breath.

Bloody footprints dried and became tacky in the transient breeze, rapidly warming beneath the sun. A green fly landed on one of the rough boulders and began tapping away at Fyve's blood with its strange mouth, head swiveling mindlessly all the while.

Fyve dumped out the contents of the bag, pocketing the majority of the gold but leaving what didn't make "the right number". He flipped open a thin book, narrowed his eyes and slammed it shut when he saw the pictures. Jamming it back in the bag, he thrust it at the limp goblin who now lay sprawled on his back. "Perbert," he growled.

The pelicans rose, working their beaks to expel the water that weighed their heavy, rubbery jowls. Minnows burst from the shallows. A pod of dolphins leapt and played, unnoticed in the distance. The blood-gorged fly took off lazily and was snapped up by a fluttering swallow.

Fyve paused, turned around. He'd left the goblin to continue his journey along the shore. He scratched his jaw and blinked, trudged back across the damp sand. He was in rare form as he crouched before the stinky, dead little green man, draping a forearm over his own knee. "Wha ya pirint?"

Fyve looked out at the water and slowly turned his head back to the goblin. He stuffed the new treasure he'd lifted off the dead pirate into his back pocket as he slid out his flask. Taking a quick swig, he replaced it, shoving the item in his pocket further down. "…Alrigh pirint. Burydat seas." The troll bared his teeth and groaned in disdain as he slipped his arms beneath the stinky dead goblin and lifted him, marching into the shallows. "Hhnnohoho eeew," he moaned, gurgling in disgust and rolling his eyes when one of the long green arms slipped off the goblin's chest and dropped against the troll's thigh. "Notouch pirint," he whispered through his teeth as he raised the limp body over his head and hurled him far past the waves to be drawn away by the current.

Fyve turned back toward the shore, his trousers wet up to his thighs. He marched a few feet, bent and put his hands on his knees. He really shouldn't have touched the goblin. Fyve was no for touch. "Bury at seas," he grunted. Then he turned his head and vomited a mixture of bourbon and stomach acid into the shallow waves. When he was reduced to dry heaves and drool, Fyve wiped his mouth, sniffed and began trudging back to shore. "Alrigh."

"Show me awaynahgoho ohnoes emtiren I wishferem inbeds." Fyve stomped along the beach, his head down as his open shirt flapped in the wind. The Southfury River appeared on his right and the rocky peaks and outcrops that surrounded the cove turned the slightest breeze into a gale. Marching forward, raising his voice over the wind that whistled and made his floppy ears wiggle at the tips, Fyve reached into his back pocket. He leaned to the side as he held the flask against his thumb, hooked the silver chain on his finger, and drew it out. He dropped the flask into place and brought the treasure to his face so he could admire it.

The necklace was very plain, but it was small and shiny and Fyve liked it. It was a good treasure. The chain was silver and long. The goblin "pirate" had worn it hidden down his shirt. It had words on the front, engraved deeply down the center. Fyve's breath whistled through his nose. He had stopped singing and plodded along silently as he ran his thumb over the symbols that he couldn't understand.

N A R C O L E P T I C

Epilogue:

Stan "Stanky" Blastwrench; sadistic madman, serial killer, sexual predator, rapist, and avid fisherman, died a more painless death than he ever could have asked for… or dreamed of.

Fyve found something dead. He ate it.

Sound track:

"Crazy"~ Willie Nelson, 1961

"Can't Take My Eyes Off Of You"~ Frankie Valli, 1967

"We Belong"~ Pat Benatar,1985

"Show Me The Way To Go Home" ~ Folk Song

Author's Note: I blew narcolepsy waaay out of proportion for the sake of this story. "Is this real life?"

"Is This Real Life?" ~ David Goes To The Dentist

Cheers!


End file.
